


The End of the Road

by JustineLark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 23:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 14,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustineLark/pseuds/JustineLark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After "Reichenbach Fall," John struggles to understand what Sherlock would have wanted him to do and to find a new direction in life. Until one morning he's awakened by pounding at the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

>   
>  When you're at the end of the road  
>  And you've lost all sense of control  
>  And your thoughts have taken their toll  
>  When your mind breaks the spirit of your soul  
>  Your faith walks on broken glass  
>  And the hangover doesn't pass  
>  Nothing's ever built to last  
>  You're in ruins  
> 
> 
> ~21 Guns, Green Day

Chapter 1

He could hardly call it a funeral. Only he and Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson stood by the grave and watched the coffin descend. Mycroft had tried to consult him about the arrangements, and he had not responded at all, which was made easy by the fact that Mycroft chose not to seek him out in person. He texted and John didn't reply. Accordingly the next text simply announced a time and location. John replied to that one, and Mycroft was waiting along with a clergyman and the cemetery staff when their taxi pulled up.

John shook hands with Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson hugged him. Mrs. Hudson clutched John's arm and John permitted Mycroft to lay a hand on his other shoulder as they witnessed what they had come to see. One of the workers handed Mrs. Hudson a spade. She scooped up a load of earth from the heap nearby and spilled it into the empty space. It made a surprisingly loud sound when it hit the coffin. She passed the tool to John. He felt that he should offer a prayer or at least a thought while he performed the task, but nothing whatsoever came to mind. _"Goodbye John."_ He had no answer to that. Rest in peace? No. That made no sense. Sherlock and the concept of peace had nothing to do with each other. He gave the spade to Mycroft, but rather than adding his quota of dirt to the grave, Mycroft returned it to the worker. They stood for a moment and then Mycroft spoke.

"I must speak to you about something, John. If you would."

John nodded. Mycroft was going to take whatever he liked from John's posture, his clothing, his grooming, his expressions, but John was determined that he was going to guard his words. Mycroft tilted his head, indicating they should step away from Mrs. Hudson and the breach in the ground.

"Do you intend to remain at the Baker Street flat?"

"I hadn't given it much thought, actually."

"I, ah, I would like to propose that I pay Sherlock's share of the rent."

At that John's head snapped up and he looked at the other man's face.

"Sherlock's share," he echoed."I suppose you should come by and pick up his things."

"His things?" He seemed to have surprised Mycroft.

"Yes, his clothes, his books. His violin. All yours now, isn't it?"

"But will you be staying there? Do consider my offer. For as long as you care to remain in residence."

"I really don't—"

"It would be a great favour to me."

"A favour? To you?" he repeated stupidly. Mycroft said nothing, giving him time to contemplate the situation. What was this supposed to be? Guilt? Quid pro quo? Merely another entry in the infinite series of inappropriate requests issued by the Holmes brothers that John was apparently powerless to refuse? Nope, not an _infinite_ series, he corrected himself. But if Mycroft says, "It's the least I can do," I _will_ say no.

"Just think about it, please, John. I'll send someone round for Sherlock's effects. Whenever you like. You have my number."

That seemed to be his final word. John returned to Mrs. Hudson's side, put his arm around her, and they climbed back into the waiting taxi.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"I made you some tea."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson." But he made no move to take it. She placed the cup on the table and turned to go, but his voice stopped her. "Wait, please. I have to tell you something." He gestured for her to take a seat and waited until she perched on the sofa.

"Sherlock wanted me to tell you something."

"What? When?"

"You know he called me, before, before…" He glanced up to see her nod. "Well, he said I should tell you that he was a fake. And that he invented Moriarty."

"What? No. Why would he…. You don't believe that, do you?"

John shrugged. "He asked me to tell you. He mentioned your name specifically. He said the newspapers were right."

"But how could that be? I don't understand. You knew him better than anyone. What did he mean by that?"

"I… Mrs. Hudson, do you think you could leave now? I'm sorry, I just…"

"Of course, dear."

But once again he called her back as she reached the door.

"Mrs. Hudson, sorry, wait, sorry. I think I'm going to have to move out."

"What? No, don't do that. If it's about the rent—"

"It's not the rent. It's just for a while, maybe. I'll get Molly to help me clear out some of the worst stuff before I go."

"All right, dear. If you must. If it's just for a bit."

He returned his gaze to the floor and she left quietly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Molly was late. He peeked out the window to see if she was approaching, and he saw that she was already there, pacing on the pavement. Quickly he stepped back so that she wouldn't see him. He sat down in his chair, leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to relax. Without a task to focus on, his mind took up the familiar cycle. _What was he thinking? Why did he do it? Why didn't he let me help him? I would have saved him, could have stopped him, should have told him.. told him what exactly? His mind was made up. But it doesn't make any sense. It wasn't a trick. I know that and he knows… he knew that I knew the truth. What was he thinking?_ His brain couldn't seem to break away from presenting these fruitless thoughts. He knew he would never discover the answers. There was no more data from which to draw any insights, and even on good days he had struggled to follow Sherlock's thought process. But he couldn't think of anything else, so he just let the familiar unhappy questions and regrets chase each other through his head.

Finally, Molly knocked and he went downstairs to let her in.

"Thank you for coming."

"No, thank you, I mean, I, I'm sorry, I should have come round," she said. "Or called, or something. Sent a card?" He frowned at her slightly but she wasn't meeting his gaze. She was usually more composed when they were alone. He had the impulse to reassure her, "It's okay, Sherlock's not here right now," but he caught himself in time.

He had followed her up the stairs, but she paused at the door to their flat— his flat, he corrected himself. Or the flat. "Come on in," he said, stepping past her. "Most of the stuff is in the kitchen. At least I hope so. We'll have to check his bedroom. I haven't been in there since—"

"His bedroom?"

"Yes, I don't usually, I mean, I wouldn't have any reason," John began, realizing he sounded as inarticulate as Molly. Oh, what was the point, anyway? Sherlock was dead, smashed on the pavement, his mortal remains had begun the process of decomposing which surely he regretted not being able to observe. But he was gone, and what Molly might think regarding when and why John might have been in the man's bedroom was immaterial. John took a deep breath. Focus on the task at hand, he admonished himself sternly. "We should check because God knows what he might have stashed in there."

It was a good thing they did, because there were some jars of… John decided the best word was specimens and an assortment of unsavory-looking petri dishes. They added these to the red biohazard bags Molly had brought, along with items from the freezer, the refrigerator and the coffee canister. John wondered if he should be annoyed about the canister. He supposed that it had been standing empty and it was meant for storage, after all. He was just glad they hadn't come across any drug paraphernalia.

"I'll pay for a cab to take you over to Bart's with this stuff," he said, as she scrubbed her hands at the kitchen sink, even though they had worn gloves.

"Oh!" she squeaked. "You don't have, I can, I don't need—"

"I insist." She had turned the water off just at that moment, and his voice was too loud. But she nodded. "How about a cup of tea?" She still seemed very tense, but he persuaded her to stay. They sat at the kitchen table, and she stared down at her steaming cup. "Molly," he began. "Thanks for coming over. You were a really good friend to him. You still are." Her eyes flashed over to his. "Helping me clean up after him," he continued, with a rueful smile.

"No problem," she murmured, dropping her gaze back to her cup.

"Nobody else knew him like we did, did they?"

"We?"

"You spent a lot of time together," he reminded her. "You watched him, didn't you?"

Her mouth twisted. "Yeah, I suppose everyone knows. Knew, I mean. I know people laughed at Silly Molly."

"No! No, we didn't. It wasn't like that at all. We never even..." He trailed off.

"Never even talked about me."

He was silent for a moment, but there was nothing else for it. "No. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm not surprised." She smiled at him, really making eye contact for the first time. "He talked about you all the time. I mean not all the time, most of the time he didn't talk or I wasn't even listening. I mean I would listen, of course, when I was nearby. But generally he was by himself. But when he did talk, either it was slides, solutions, reagents, you know, science things, or John."

Not knowing what to say, John took a sip of tea.

"He called me John half the time," she confessed. "More than half, probably. Did you know he did that?"

"Yeah, he seemed to... not really realise if I wasn't there. Thought I'd hear him anytime he had anything to say. Well, any orders to give, more likely."

They chuckled.

"Look, speaking of which," he said. "He wanted me to tell you something."

"What?" Molly seemed bewildered. "When?"

"Right before," John explained, as he had to Mrs. Hudson. "He called me when I got back to Bart's that morning, and he told me to tell you something."

"Me?"

"Yes, he said your name. He said I should tell you that he was a fake."

"A fake?" she repeated with great emphasis, her eyes going wide. "What? What does that mean? What did he say that he faked?"

"He meant, you know, what the newspapers said. That he created all the crimes so he could pretend to solve them. I don't know why he wanted me to tell you that. But that's what he said, so I'm telling you. It was his last request, well, almost."

"Almost?"

"Never mind. I shouldn't have said that."

"But what do you mean? What was his last request, then?" She seemed tense again, desperate to know.

"Molly, I—"

"Please. Please tell me."

"He told me to watch him. While he—" He couldn't say it.

"Oh, John," she said, reaching over to put her hand on top of his. He dropped his head onto his forearms, not wanting her to be able to see him break down, if that's what he was about to do. "I'd better dash!" she said, standing up abruptly and sliding her chair back with a loud noise. "Please call if there's anything else I can do! Thanks for the tea! I'll see myself out!"

He heard her footsteps, the doors closing behind her. He lifted his head and saw that she had taken the biohazard bags. He hadn't given her any money for the cab.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, the previous two chapters overlap with the end of the Reichenbach Fall episode, because in the final scene when John is at the cemetary, the headstone is up, meaning it's been a few weeks since the funeral, and he's not living in or able to visit the Baker Street flat. This chapter, then, is the first that follows the last episode.

John rather resented the fact that Ella had been right. Again. Saying what he wanted to say had changed something even though the person who was meant to hear was lying in a box some meters below the earth under his feet. He felt ready to do the last bit, the part of the task he'd been putting off for a couple of weeks now. And then he thought he could return to the flat and take care of the boxes Mrs. Hudson had packed. He sent a text and got a reply in minutes.

A few hours later, when John arrived at the coffee shop a few blocks from the Yard, Greg was already there. The detective began speaking before John even slid into the booth.

"Thank you for meeting me. John, I am so sorry. Sorry for what we did. Sorry for your loss. I'm so sorry for everything."

John shook his head and held up his hand. "I don't want to talk about that. Please."

Greg frowned. His thoughts were clearly written on his face: _What do you want to talk about, then?_

"I know you did what you had to do, and I don't blame you for what happened. Not at all. It's your loss too, after all."

"Yeah, it is, and not just professionally. You know that, don't you?"

John nodded. "Look, the reason I wanted to talk to you is, I'm sure you read the report and you know he called me, he was talking to me—"

"Yes, I know."

"They didn't ask for too many details of the conversation. I told them that he meant to do it, that it wasn't an accident, and that he hadn't said anything about anyone else up there with him, dead or alive."

"Do you have some new information?" Greg was leaning forward, eager.

"No, not like that. I'm sorry." The other man slumped back against the booth. John realised he'd given the impression that there was more to the story, that Sherlock had given him some useful clues or instructions to pass on to sort out the mess he was leaving behind. Hardly. "He told me to tell you that he was a fake."

Greg looked confused and annoyed. "No way."

"Why would I make it up?"

"No, no, I believe you, of course. I mean, he wasn't a fake. I never thought so and everything we've reviewed so far has come up clean."

"That's what he said, and he said I should tell you, Mrs. Hudson, Molly and anyone who would listen. Those were his words. I've told the others. Well, I haven't done anything about 'anyone who would listen' and I don't reckon I'm going to."

"I don't understand."

John snorted. "Par for the course, eh?"

"True enough." They exchanged a wry glance. "He said he was a fake," Greg repeated thoughtfully. "What do you make of it?"

"I don't know. I've tried to work it out, believe me. But I can't get it to fit. If he was a fake, it all hangs together. But like you said, he wasn't. I know that and he knew that I knew. I mean, this wasn't any, any unspoken understanding. I don't _know in my heart_ that he knew. We talked about it!" John stopped, realizing that he was getting agitated. He continued, more quietly. "So why did he tell me that? Why did he jump? I don't know, and I never could solve anything on my own. But he told me to tell you, and I..." He fell silent.

"You always did what he said." Greg supplied quietly.

"That's about the size of it."

"Well, you've done your duty." John knew that Greg was offering reassurance, trying to nudge him towards that mystical, supposedly marvelous destination referred to as closure. But he knew he hadn't fulfilled his duty or accomplished any mission. He'd failed, fallen short. And the mission had ended. "Look, I don't suppose we'll ever know why. But I do know that you were the best thing—"

He stopped speaking as John shook his head. "I really can't…. can't cope with the sympathy. Nothing wrong with it, I know it's genuine and everyone means well. But it doesn't help."

"Got it."

"Any interesting cases on at the moment?"

Greg chuckled. "Not so you'd notice. But you know what everyone's talking about? Not our division, but some genius impersonated a police officer and conducted traffic stops. Lord knows why. To feel powerful, I suppose. It was all going a treat." He paused for dramatic effect. "Until he pulled over two off-duty members of the Mounted Branch."

John's smile was the first in a long while that he didn't have to force.


	4. Chapter 4

Had he done everything he was supposed to have done? Always he'd given what he'd been asked. Not always cheerfully, but God knew he would've kept on giving. Mycroft and Lestrade seemed to want Sherlock's name cleared and his reputation restored. John wasn't sure if he even wanted it or maybe just thought he should want it. It had bothered him, certainly, but that was before. Strange that he had cared so much when his friend was alive and now it seemed inconsequential. Hero or villain, genius or madman, in the eyes of the public? Who the bloody hell cared? He was all four, John thought, and _sui generis_ anyway, the world's only. Posthumous was the only word that registered with John. He had taken it all so much for granted. Why had he not known that it could end?

Everyone says the first year is the hardest. In dreams and awake, he saw the figure plummeting from the roof, but he was no longer angry that he'd been burdened with this image. It had occurred to him, after what was in retrospect quite a long time, that Sherlock hadn't required him to watch in order to be cruel, to hurt him. After all, Sherlock had never spared much thought— any thought?— for the cost to John of any of his demands. He had done it for himself. It was one of the first things he'd told John: he needed an audience. Certainly he had wanted John to follow him, both his footsteps and his leaps of logic. And his short journey to his final destination. Despite the ongoing trauma for John he couldn't say he would have wanted Sherlock to be alone for that.

Time and again John started to speak, to point out an item in the newspaper or an interesting passerby. He forgot Sherlock was gone, but it happened both ways. He forgot, thinking for a moment that his friend was still in the next room or just a step away or could turn up any minute. So many times Sherlock had surprised him by being where John was. They had actually collided that one time following separate trails to the Lucky Cat. Frequently, Sherlock had surreptitiously followed him. Or simply guessed—well, he would say _known_ — where John was, where John would be, and materialized. John had to realise over and over that Sherlock was gone. But he forgot the other way too, got caught up in a patient or walking in the park and he didn't think about the man who was no longer there. Grief didn't become smaller but it came and went, it seemed. He couldn't choose to set it aside but sometimes it let go for a while.

Mycroft had been remarkably meek. He didn't invade John's bank account. He didn't involve Mrs. Hudson. Every month John received an envelope containing a check made out to Mrs. Hudson for half the rent. It was his choice whether to bin it or use it. Every month there was a correspondence card enclosed as well. Even John could see that the stationery was expensive and the message was written in quality ink. _Thank you._ No signature, but the card was embossed with the initials and a border in gold. Every month John accepted, because he wasn't being made to. Sherlock, of course, would go spare if he knew, but John didn't feel disloyal. It was an exchange of gifts: Mycroft wanted to do something for him and he wanted to do something for Mycroft, and there wasn't anything beyond this that one of them needed or wanted that the other could provide.

It had been eleven months since that fatal morning. Ten months since John moved back into 221B. Nine months since he began working four days a week and every third weekend at a clinic in Brixton. Four months since he resumed dating. He hadn't seen anyone more than a handful of times, but it was good to get out. He still didn't sleep well and he awakened immediately to the pounding at the door.

"Help!" The banging didn't let up while he pulled on shoes and ran downstairs. He and Mrs. Hudson met at the door and he waved her back before pulling it open.

A teenager, out of breath, looking and smelling like he lived on the streets, practically fell in. "There's a fight… in the park. Some bloke… said to get help… from this address."

"It's the middle of the night!" Mrs. Hudson protested.

"Did anyone call 999?" John asked.

"He said get help from 221 Baker Street."

"Fine, I'll go."

"Do be careful, John!"

He heard Mrs. Hudson offering the youth a cup of tea as he trotted towards the park. As he drew closer, a streetlight showed two figures fighting on the bridge.

"Oi!" John shouted.

A man in a long, dark coat landed a solid blow that sent the other reeling back. He seized the advantage and barreled forward, tipping his opponent off the bridge and into the pond below.


	5. Chapter 5

Having pushed the other man into the water, the tall man looked around. He saw John approaching fast and took off in the opposite direction. John had no choice. He had already changed course to run to the water's edge. It wasn't deep. The pond was ornamental. But the body was submerged. He waded out, pleased to find the bottom was muddy rather than rocky or lined with concrete. The sky was definitely growing lighter, but the water was murky and the activity had stirred up the silt. John's foot connected with the body before he saw anything and he reached down to grasp the shoulders, lift the man's head above water and drag him to shore.

Panting, he scrambled up the bank. This part was the hardest as he could no longer use the water to support the man's weight. He heaved the body out, looked down and just about dropped it back into the water.

The clothes were wrong, the hair was wrong, but the face! The cheekbones! _But, but, BUT!_ Thoughts raced through his mind at top volume.

_SHERLOCK! This is the body of Sherlock Holmes._

_No._

_Not possible._

_Sherlock is dead._

_His body is six feet under._

_But_ this _body!_

_I never looked inside the coffin._

_He came back from the dead?_

_And he's dead again?_

Even as these questions and ideas whirled around in his head, he had dragged the body fully onto the grass and knelt to examine it. Airway clear, not breathing. John didn't have a mask. He didn't have his phone or wallet or anything besides his keys. No matter. Mechanically he began administering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Watch for chest expansion. Then check the pulse. If no pulse, then begin CPR.

_There had better be a pulse._

_If he is alive again then he is_ not _going be dead again._

_But he jumped. From the roof. Nobody could survive that._

_And he didn't survive. I saw the body, I felt his wrist. I buried him. I threw dirt on his coffin._

_Did Sherlock have a twin brother? That nobody had ever mentioned…._

The victim began coughing. Alive, then. And breathing on his own now. The man wiped his mouth and looked up at his rescuer, his blue eyes locking onto John's.

"John!" The voice, yes, it was hoarse, but the same.

"Yes, it's me," he said.

"What happened?"

" _WHAT HAPPENED!_ " John repeated incredulously. "You tell me!"

Sherlock was skimming his fingers over his lips. "Did you…. Were you…"

John's mouth dropped open in outrage. "That was rescue breathing!"

"Mmmm," said Sherlock, turning his head back to the sky.

"Is it really you?" John couldn't help asking.

"Indeed."

"Prove it."

"How could it be anyone else?" Sherlock's voice was exasperated.

"I don't know. But you, clearly you tricked me before."

"How about this?" Sherlock began speaking as if reading from a script. "I hope nobody saw that thing you did with your mouth just now. People will talk."

John just looked at him.

"Our little joke?" Sherlock reminded him. "No? OK. OK, remember when I said to you, 'I don't have friends. I just have one.' Who else knows about that?"

"Lots of people, for all I know."

"What?"

"I told my therapist, and I'm well aware that my medical files aren't as secure as they should be."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine, then. You ask me something, something only I would know."

John's brain was exploding with questions, but none of them seemed to fit the requirements. He knew by now that this was no ghost, no twin, no doppelganger, no body double. The whole experience could be a dream, but whether in this world or some land of his subconscious, he was speaking to Sherlock Holmes who apparently had never died. Of course there were many things that only Sherlock knew, but most of them were things that John didn't know. He wouldn't be able to confirm the answer. Still he felt he had to pose some query in order for them to move forward into whatever was going to happen next.

Words spilled out of his mouth unbidden. "What piece do you play in Cluedo and why?" Really? He immediately questioned himself. Was that supposed to be definitive proof? But the challenge had been issued.

Sherlock smiled. "Miss Scarlett," he answered. "Because she—"

"Always moves first," they said, in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene actually inspired the whole story. The IOU apple that Moriarty gave Sherlock reminded me of the apple in Snow White, which is particularly relevant because fairy tales play a large part in that episode. When Snow White eats the apple, what happens? _She appears to be dead._ And what brings her back to life? _A kiss from her true love._ I immediately began wondering whether I could create a situation in which Sherlock would be revived by, well, it wasn't really a kiss from John but it looked an awful lot like one.


	6. Chapter 6

"John, I—"

"Sherlock—"

Again, they spoke together. John motioned for his friend to continue.

"I have to get off the street."

"What?"

"Something's gone wrong, _obviously_."

"But you're alive!"

"I was just attacked! I was on my way home, finally, and someone attacked me!"

John bit his lip. "Yes, right, I get it."

"I need to get away from here _now_."

"Well, come—"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Not the flat. I'm dead, remember. Nobody is supposed to know I'm here. Nobody was supposed to know that I'm alive, but somebody does." Suddenly Sherlock was staring at him intently again. "John. If we're going to get out of this, you have to do exactly what I say, and we don't have time for questions and explanations. Agreed?"

John pressed his hands to his face. So, he was on a need-to-know basis. Again. And apparently he didn't need to know anything. As usual. Only Sherlock would have the audacity to rise from the dead and expect John to simply fall in line behind him like a good little soldier. He felt like laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Probably the effects of the emotional whiplash.

"Fine," he said, meeting his friend's gaze again and narrowing his eyes in such a way as to convey that he would be demanding answers at the earliest opportunity. Sherlock nodded.

"Go home and tell nobody, _not a single person_ , that you've seen me." John's eyes widened and he suddenly felt cold. They were separating? But he hadn't even— "We'll meet later and plan the next steps," Sherlock continued. "But for now your routine _must_ remain as normal. If anyone asks what you were doing here, you helped a homeless youth who was injured." John nodded. "Now, where I can stay out of sight and you can come without arousing suspicion?"

"My office?"

"It'll have to do."

John gave him the address and removed the key from his key ring. "Just stay in my office, none of the other staff will go in there. You'll have to shut off and then re-arm the alarm. It's a four-digit code—"

"Don't tell me. 221B?"

John rolled his eyes. Time was of the essence, except if Sherlock spotted an opportunity to show off. "No. As a matter of fact it is not 221B."

"Fine. What is it then?"

"221D."

Their eyes met and they burst into laughter. But Sherlock's giddiness quickly turned to uncontrollable shaking.

"Switch clothes with me," John ordered. "Come on, you're soaking wet." He stood and stripped off his T-shirt and jumper. Sherlock looked up at him a bit dubiously but got to his feet, pulled off the grimy sweatshirt and ragged shirt underneath and exchanged them for John's clothes. John shuddered as the cold garments touched his skin but as he folded back the sleeves, he saw with satisfaction that Sherlock rubbed the clump of John's clothes over his chest and arms before putting them on.

Sherlock looked ridiculous and about twenty years old in the too-small shirt and jumper along with jeans and trainers. John couldn't tear his eyes away. He stepped forward, hand outstretched, just to touch his friend's arm, feel the living body again. But Sherlock ducked his head and turned away. "See you soon," he called over his shoulder.

"Yes, soon," John answered. He watched him walk away, but Sherlock didn't look back again, so John turned and headed for home.


	7. Chapter 7

"Thanks, Jenny. Sorry. I must have left my key at home." John smiled and shook his head at his forgetfulness as their receptionist let him in.

"No problem, Dr. Watson."

"John," he corrected her, as always, but she just smiled.

"You're in early today."

"Well, today is the first day of the rest of my life."

"We'll see if you're still that chipper this afternoon." She giggled as she returned to her desk.

John took a deep breath before opening the door to his office. Sherlock was alive and he had seen him. The proof was in the shirt and sweatshirt that he'd run through the dryer (no time to launder them) and in the sodden, half-empty packet of cigarettes that he'd found in the pocket and discarded. But would Sherlock be here now? What would he do if he wasn't? He swung the door open, and in the light from the hallway he could see a figure lying face down on the floor. John closed the door gently and stood waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Sherlock had stripped off his wet jeans, socks and trainers and fallen asleep. He must be exhausted.

John wasn't sure if bringing a gym bag to the office counted as an unacceptable departure from his routine, but sod it. He had been pretty certain that Sherlock was tired, wet and hungry, and it was his job to remedy those conditions to the extent he was allowed. He unpacked a light blanket and covered Sherlock with it, and he set the dry clothes and snacks next to him. He put the discarded wet clothes into the bag, figuring he could take them to the launderette during his lunch break. Would that generate suspicion? Maybe he could spill something on himself and just pop Sherlock's things in the machine along with his own clothes? Was there anything else he should be doing? Tricky when he had little idea of what they were facing. With a wry smile, he slipped out to the supply cabinet and fetched a starter pack of nicotine patches, which he placed next to the other items.

Sherlock was completely still. John had twenty minutes before meeting his first patient of the day. He took a seat on the floor next to Sherlock, just to look and be near. But without any conscious decision on his part, John's hand was creeping towards the sleeping form. _Don't disturb him!_ he admonished himself. _Let him rest!_ His hand ignored these sensible notions. It slipped under the blanket and grasped Sherlock's wrist just firmly enough to feel the pulse thudding through. John felt more relaxed and content than he had for months, since before that crazy morning when Moriarty had broken into the Tower of London. Sherlock was alive and, for the moment, safe.


	8. Chapter 8

John woke Sherlock with a finger laid across his own lips to signal the need for quiet.

"What time is it?" Sherlock whispered. John held his phone up so Sherlock could read the display.

"Are we alone?"

"Soon. After 3:30 it's same-day appointments only, and I asked them not to book any patients unless it was really, really urgent. Parker is seeing someone, but that exam room is on the other side. They'll all be out of here by 4:00."

John waited while Sherlock put on the dry clothes. He had dutifully spilled a brimming cup of ice water on himself at Pret a Manger and then dried his shirt along with Sherlock's jeans and socks at the launderette three doors down. "I'm sorry, I don't have any of your clothes at the flat anymore," he said. Without making a reply, Sherlock applied a nicotine patch to his arm, unwrapped the sandwich John had brought from home and bit into it. _Thank you, John_ , John supplied. _This is all very thoughtful of you._ But he didn't care about that, really. He couldn't keep the smile off his face as he watched Sherlock eat.

"Go on, then," Sherlock invited, gesturing with the sandwich.

"I have a question for you," John started.

"Of course!" Sherlock said eagerly, a little too loudly. Seeing John's expression, he lowered his voice. "You want to know how I staged my death."

"No—"

"I must say, it was a remarkably excellent plan, especially given how little time—"

"No, Sherlock." John spoke firmly. "That's not what I was going to say."

"It wasn't?"

John smiled at Sherlock's chagrin. "You can tell me about it later. I am interested to hear how you managed it. But what I wanted to ask is: should I have figured it out? I didn't. I had no idea. But I've been thinking it over today. You made sure I watched you. Was this another instance of," he dropped his voice and attempted to elevate his accent, "'John, you see but you do not observe'?"

"No." Sherlock fixed him with a look that he would have to describe as fond. All day anxiety had been building in John, the fear that his anguish had been the result of his own stupidity and he was going to face reproach and contempt for it, and he felt himself begin to relax.

"Really? You're not—"

"I don't 'just say' things. I made certain you couldn't figure it out. You were the mark, the one we had to fool."

"We," John repeated, his thoughts turning to another aspect of the situation. "I suppose Molly helped you?" Sherlock nodded, still meeting his gaze. "So. This whole time. She knew you were alive."

"No, she didn't." John was about to object, but Sherlock anticipated his response. "She knew I didn't die on the pavement in front of Bart's that morning. But that's all she knew. I had to have her help but I couldn't really…. I didn't want to…. The last time she saw me was not too long after you did."

"But she saw you walk away! Alive! Don't try to act like she and I were in the same boat!"

"I didn't walk away. I was rolled away on a gurney."

"Sherlock!" He scowled. He didn't want to hear about technicalities.

"Are you angry at me?"

"Yes! Come on, the point is not whether you walked or not. The point is.… I don't know! Should I be angry? I suppose if I tried I could be. If you'd come back sooner I might've been furious."

"John. That makes no sense."

John shrugged. "Yeah, no argument here." He smiled at Sherlock's confused expression. "Look, at first, I was a wreck. Right after, there were things to do and I did them. But then I was like a zombie. Didn't want to eat, hardly spoke, couldn't stay in the flat. I just didn't want to believe what had happened. But it was true. I mean, I thought it was true, and I had a choice of staying like that, not really functioning, or facing reality. And I just, I know people thought I had been aiding and abetting a criminal or else hopelessly duped by one, but I knew that what I had done mattered and I felt I could still do something. I mean, it was never going to last forever anyway, was it? Either we'd get hurt or too old, but I never thought if we couldn't chase criminals anymore we should just pack it in. I decided that was true even if it was just me, and I had to go on living. I just accepted that I'd never really know why you did what you did and I couldn't change it. So I'm not angry anymore."

He lifted his head, to find Sherlock staring at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to lay all that on you." Sherlock said nothing, so John felt he might as well spill the thoughts that had been percolating in his head all day.

"I, I wish I didn't have to go through that— it was hard on a lot of people, believe it or not— and I wish you hadn't had to, well, I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you with whatever you've been up to, but mainly I'm just, I'm so glad. I don't know, Sherlock, I feel like, what did I do to be so lucky? People pray for miracles every day, and they don't get them. Parents pray for their child's cancer to go into remission, and it doesn't. And I have survived more than one near-death experience, and you're back, and I don't know why."

"It wasn't a miracle. There's no such thing as miracles. It was just a trick."

" _Just_ , yeah, you can say that because you're the magician. It's pretty impressive to the audience, I can tell you that much."

"If there's any… extremely low probability event that we should be grateful for, it's the fact that you were there this morning to pull me out of the water. You saved my life. Again."

"Well, who's counting?"

"Besides, you're overlooking something." John raised his eyebrows, inviting Sherlock to explain. "We're not out of the woods yet. Somebody tried to kill me. In fact I'm hoping they think they did. I had someone call in the incident at the park, and I hope the police are searching the grounds and dredging the pond and buying us a bit of time."

"OK, who was it and what are we going to do about it?"

"Now you're asking the right questions," Sherlock congratulated him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know in most reunion fics John is angry about what Sherlock did, and the BBC writers have said they picture him cursing a lot, but I thought I'd try a different way. I just think, if your prayers were answered, maybe that would be enough.


	9. Chapter 9

"But do you have the answers? Do you know who's after you?"

Sherlock's expression twisted in extreme displeasure. "It was someone in Mycroft's office."

"What?"

"Well," Sherlock began, looking at John and then dropping his gaze. "Mycroft and I have been in contact."

John bit his lip. All day he had contemplated his new reality even while he interacted with patients and did the best he could to play the part of Dr. John Watson. Luckily by this point he'd had plenty of practice going through the motions while inwardly grappling with his myriad emotional issues. He'd guessed that Molly had been involved, and he'd figured that if anyone else knew, it would be Mycroft. Either Mycroft would have discovered the truth on his own or Sherlock would have requested his brother's assistance. Regardless, Mycroft had failed to clue John in on the secret. But everything was down to Sherlock, really. He couldn't fault Molly or Mycroft for their loyalty to Sherlock. He just didn't like the fact that they, particularly Mycroft, had remained in the inner circle and he— the best friend, the constant companion, the faithful blogger, hell, the _soul mate_ in the minds of many— was left alone outside.

"You know what they say: blood is thicker than water."

Sherlock made eye contact again, frowning at him. He didn't seem to know what to make of John's bland remark. "I didn't want to," he offered. "Eventually I had no choice. Information, money, documents, that sort of thing. It wasn't out of… anything else."

 _You're glad_ , John reminded himself. "Just get on with the story." His tone wasn't all the way to warm, but it was inviting enough.

"I've been abroad, dismantling Moriarty's organization. It's taken ages."

"Probably because you didn't have me." John couldn't resist needling him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Possibly," he conceded. "But I did it. I cut off their resources, turned them in. Killed a couple of them," he added, pausing for John's reaction.

"Taking the law into your own hands? I'm shocked, shocked," John said in a pious tone, even though he doubted Sherlock would pick up on the reference to one of the most famous films of all time.

"Right. Well, I didn't have to do that too often. In most cases I just stirred up trouble, and they turned on each other."

"But why someone in Mycroft's office?"

"Obvious. Who would kill a dead man? But Mycroft knew I was alive until, hmm, what's today? Tuesday? I emailed him from Paris on Sunday and told him I expected to wrap up my business and take the train to London on Monday, which I did. I was on the last train, and it was hours late. I was intercepted as I approached the flat and taken into the park at gunpoint."

"Gunpoint? What happened to the gun?"

"I got it away from him, but I never actually had control of it. It went into the pond. We might try retrieving it later, if the police don't fish it up. Could come in handy. The point is: someone who works for Mycroft must have known for a while that I was alive and was waiting for me to return to London to finish me off. But…oh! _OH!_ "

Seeing Sherlock's mind whirring and the ideas falling into place behind the clear blue eyes was one of John's favourite sights in the world. He felt the familiar blend of admiration, amazement and affection that generally sent compliments spilling from his lips, only intensified now because he thought he'd never feel it again.

"I never knew!" Sherlock said in a tone of wonder. "I never knew just like he never knew!"

Since Sherlock's vocalizations seemed to have halted for the moment, John prompted him to explain. "I still don't know, so anytime you're ready."

"It was Molly! _Molly_ , John."

" _Molly?_ " He was aghast.

"No, not Molly," Sherlock said scornfully, as if he hadn't just said that it _was_ Molly. "Moriarty knew her, but he didn't think about her. He didn't think Molly counted. He threatened you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

"So that's—"

"John, focus! Moriarty didn't realise I had another, well, someone else who would help me. His fatal mistake. That's how I was able to escape his trap. But I made the same mistake. I thought I'd closed down his empire, but I must have overlooked somebody. Somebody he didn't think was important, so I didn't think was important. But that person matters and he's been biding his time. Excellent. This will narrow down his identity."

"OK, so one of Moriarty's friends—" Seeing Sherlock shake his head, John substituted another word. "Helpers? Minions? OK, minions is like a spy in Mycroft's organization." Sherlock nodded. "So we'll tell Mycroft—"

"No."

"But—"

"Absolutely not. This person, let's call him X, may be very close to my dear brother, may be tapping into his communications, may have him bugged. X discovered the truth even though Mycroft was discreet. No, Mycroft can't know I'm alive." He smiled. "You're the only one in on the secret this time."

How was John supposed to react to that? Was it satisfying? Not really. Mostly he felt terrible for Mycroft having to endure another trip into the valley of Sherlock's death. He hoped it wouldn't last long, but pain was pain, no matter how brief. "So, we need to identify X," he said.

"I have a plan," Sherlock announced grandly. "It will be dangerous for you, though."

"Business as usual, then." They both flashed slight smiles.

"At the moment, Mycroft is aware I haven't returned from Paris as I informed him and X thinks that's because the person he sent was successful."

"X wasn't the man in the park?"

"I think not. I think my attacker was merely hired help. So, you will go to Mycroft in person and tell him that you got a note from me in Paris. Mycroft will send you to a secure location, and X will come after you to be sure that you don't have enough information to expose him."

"We'll flush him out."

"Precisely."

"How do you know what Mycroft will do?" Sherlock merely arched an eyebrow. Not worth a moment's concern, apparently. OK, then, on to the next issue. On the one hand, John was pleased that Sherlock was giving him a leading role in the upcoming drama. But he had some misgivings about his fitness for the part he had to play. "Seeing him face to face, I don't know if I can pull that off, Sherlock. He'll be able to read me."

"You are broadcasting a variety of strong emotions, but I'm confident that he'll ascribe those to my note indicating that I was alive a few days ago. Now, pay attention," he commanded, actually snapping his fingers in front of John's face. "The greatest risk is if X is one of the people Mycroft assigns to escort you. You'll be on your own then. Do whatever you have to do." John nodded. He had also packed his gun in the gym bag. "If not, which is the more likely scenario, then X will send someone or come after you himself. But I'll be there to back you up."

"How are you going to manage that?"

"You don't think I can protect you?"

"I mean, how are you going to be there? How will you know where I am?"

"Ah. I set some plans in motion on my way here. As I told you, I had somebody call in the incident at the pond. Of course my accomplice was rather confused on the details, so the police will have to search a large swath of the park. I also had CCTV cameras in this vicinity disabled, as well as a number of others so as not to draw suspicion to this area. Finally, I have people ready to follow you. They'll see where you go and they'll notify me. Nothing could be simpler. Luckily they all accepted Euro. I didn't have any pound notes on me. So, I'll disable your guards and join you in awaiting your attacker."

 _Nothing could be simpler. Right,_ John thought without conviction. But Sherlock was continuing blithely, "Do you have any ketamine on hand?"

"Ketamine! Sherlock! It's a Class C substance. I could lose my license. Not to mention, these are Mycroft's people! I don't think—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You prefer that I fight unarmed?"

John rubbed his hands over his face. "Fine. Have it your way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is quoting Casablanca when he says "I'm shocked, shocked," in case you were wondering.


	10. Chapter 10

Several hours later, John sat on the bed in the anonymous suburban hotel room and took stock. So far, everything was going exactly according to plan.

Sherlock had actually given him a note to show Mycroft. "Go home and pretend to receive this in the post," he instructed. "We can't fake the envelope and postmark, but this is a receipt from a Paris café from Thursday. I happened to have it in my wallet."

He had hated parting from Sherlock again, but he had to trust him to take care of himself just as Sherlock was trusting him not to let one of his own guards overcome him. Fortunately, he hadn't encountered Mrs. Hudson and thus didn't have to trump up any story for her. Mycroft had agreed to meet him at the club. John ignored the arm extended for a handshake and cut off the pleasant greeting by thrusting the note at him.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

_Dear John,_

_Vatican cameos. Tell Mycroft._

_I didn't intend for things to turn out this way. I'm sorry._

_SH_

Mycroft scanned the note quickly, flipped it over to see a purchase of three espressos and frowned at John.

"I don't know," he said evenly.

"What?" John didn't have to struggle to generate authentic outrage. This man had permitted him to remain in mourning for months. "I got this in the post today, from Paris. Sherlock is alive! How is that possible?"

"Surely it's just a hoax."

"It's code," John snarled. "It's him. I know it. He's alive!"

"He was alive," Mycroft admitted, apparently accepting that his bluff had failed.

"Last week!"

"Yes, I heard from him on Sunday morning."

"Mycroft! How could you?"

"I'm sorry, John. Truly sorry. Sherlock contacted me several weeks after his apparent suicide, and he's been engaged in taking apart Moriarty's web of crime, as he calls it. You know how he loves the dramatic. I haven't actually seen him," he assured John.

"Haven't seen him! As if that makes a difference!"

"John, please. What's more important right now is not the existence of this note but its contents." Mycroft sat down and gestured for John to take the chair opposite, but John remained standing.

"What do you mean, 'He _was_ alive'?"

"I expected to hear from him, and you would have seen him in person before now. He intended to take the Eurostar on Monday. 221B Baker Street was his destination. I've been trying to 'pick up his trail,' as you might say, but I haven't been successful."

"So he was alive all this time but he's dead now?" John tried to channel some of the crushing confusion and horror he'd felt by the pond that morning.

Mycroft ignored John's agitation. "What does 'Vatican cameos' mean?"

"It's a warning: danger, get out of the way."

Mycroft brought his fingertips together in a familiar gesture. John decided his display of emotions had been sufficient and dropped into the chair. After several minutes of silence, Mycroft appeared to send a flurry of text messages. He returned his contemplative pose for a time. Finally, he spoke, keeping his eyes on his steepled hands. Presumably he was sparing himself from witnessing John's reactions or perhaps sparing John from the intensity of his observation. Under the circumstances, this choice was ideal. "My conclusions are as follows. (1) Sherlock perceived some danger to you which he hoped to eliminate. (2) He believed he had done so and therefore informed me of his imminent return to London. (3) He is now dead, unconscious or held captive, unable to communicate further with either of us. (4) I have assigned a small team to guard you while I investigate this matter."

John was pleased that Mycroft had fulfilled Sherlock's expectations immediately, but he felt he should protest. "No! I want to help."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question. You said yourself that you must stay out of the way. 'Tell Mycroft' means that I am to handle it. This is what Sherlock wants."

"Why should I care? He lied to me for months."

"You brought me the note," Mycroft pointed out. Mycroft's phone buzzed with a text alert. He glanced at the screen and strode to the door. "Your car is here. Now, please, John, I need your cooperation. Are you armed?" John nodded. "Good. I apologize for the inconvenience, and I trust it will not be of long duration. I shall be in touch as soon as possible." This time John accepted the handshake.

The guard's names, or the names they offered, were Adrian and Tom. After introducing themselves, they didn't speak again. Throughout the long ride in the car with blacked-out windows, John was on edge in case either of them made a move against him, but the trip passed without incident. Adrian entered the nondescript hotel, presumably to check in, and then radioed for Tom to bring John to a side entrance. Adrian remained in the hall while Tom took up a position against the wall of the small room, halfway between the door and the window. He motioned to the bed. "Please have a seat, Dr. Watson," he invited. "You can even take a nap if you like." Of course John had no intention of relaxing his wariness. Tom might be waiting for just such a moment to attack. John knew how to keep watch. He sat down and reviewed the evening's events. He could spend hours waiting calmly, ready to spring into alertness the instant that he was required.


	11. Chapter 11

The guards switched places at half hour intervals, and John took the action as a cue to move about and keep his blood circulating. There had been several of these exchanges, and John was beginning to wonder whether Mycroft had arranged for another team to relieve Adrian and Tom eventually and, more important, where the hell Sherlock was. Undoubtedly the man was brilliant, resourceful, dynamic, mysterious, and every other term of approbation he liked to apply to himself, but you couldn't call him prompt. Did he not know where John was after all or had he been waylaid en route?

Finally, something happened. Tom's radio crackled, and he and John both tensed. "My position," came Adrian's voice.

"He needs me," Tom stated briefly. "You're the last line of defense."

John drew his weapon, thumb-cocked it and got to his feet, pressing himself against the wall dividing the bathroom from the main area. Almost as soon as Tom stepped out, there was commotion in the hallway. John's heart began pounding even faster. He hoped X himself would come through the door. _Let me end this,_ he thought fervently. Instead there was a soft knock and a familiar voice.

"John?"

Instantly he was flooded with relief. He slid the decocking lever back and tucked the pistol behind his back as he went to the door and opened it. The jolt of happiness John got from seeing Sherlock quickly changed to dismay. "What happened to you?" he asked, taking in the rumpled clothing, the flushed and damp face and the scent of alcohol wafting faintly from his friend.

"Nothing." Sherlock stepped into the bathroom and began splashing water onto his face. He looked up, and their eyes met in the mirror. "Just cosmetics. Bring those two in here, would you?"

"What did you do to them?"

Sherlock grinned. "Played drunk, of course. Your lad out there let me get too close. I injected him when I stumbled and fell against him. Then I made him radio his partner before he passed out. Really, the caliber of people Mycroft employs does not give one confidence in the future of the Commonwealth." He used his foot to swing the door shut in John's face.

Sighing, John dragged the guards into the room, where they took up too much of the rather limited floor space. Sherlock joined him and together they removed the weapons and comm devices, heaved the unconscious men onto the bed and used the hotel-supplied laundry cord to restrain them.

"You took your time getting here," John commented.

"The M25," Sherlock said with disgust.

"And you stopped to change clothes?"

"Well, I needed to look a little more reputable." Sherlock's gaze flickered over him, and his tone softened. "You weren't worried about me, were you?"

"Of course not. Now that I know you're immortal."

Sherlock frowned. "John, I was never actually—"

John snickered, and they lapsed into a fit of laughter. John pulled himself together. "Where are we, anyway?"

"Luton. OK, these two are set for a while. You stay here. I'll surveil from the hall."

When Mycroft called just before midnight, John poked his head out of the door and beckoned Sherlock over. He put the call on speaker.

"John, is all well?"

"Yes, fine."

"No news from the Vatican?"

John rolled his eyes, but when he saw Sherlock smirking at Mycroft's heavy-handed spycraft, he glared at him. "All quiet." He held his breath, hoping that Mycroft wouldn't want check with his people directly. But he accepted John's word.

"I have made progress. A man who could be Sherlock is visible on footage from St. Pancras on Monday afternoon."

Even without seeing the minute shake of Sherlock's head, John knew that he hadn't arrived until much later, but he tried to formulate an appropriate response. "He made it to London, then?"

"It would seem so."

"Do you think he's still alive?"

"I shall check in with you again later, and of course you will hear from me immediately if I have anything of an urgent nature to report." With that Mycroft ended the call.

John looked up and met Sherlock's eyes, wondering if he was going to show any reaction to hearing his brother's voice, but Sherlock's expression was perfectly neutral.

"We're going to need a new code phrase," he said, clapping John on the shoulder and heading back to his position in the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read up on John's Sig Sauer handgun to write this chapter. It's a "double-action/single-action" weapon and therefore doesn't have a safety. With a safety mechanism, you can't fire the gun while the safety is engaged. With a DA/SA mechanism, you can always fire, but if the gun is in DA mode, you have to use more pressure, which both cocks and fires the gun (the term "double" indicates that both processes are performed) and leaves it cocked for the next shot. At that point the gun is in SA mode and less trigger pressure is required. But you can switch directly to SA without firing that first shot or back from SA to the safer DA (because it would be unlikely to apply that much trigger pressure unintentionally) with the decocking lever.


	12. Chapter 12

John was surprised when the attack came through window, but not as surprised as the intruder when John leaped on him as he bent over the figures lying on the bed in the dark room. John made the most of his advantage and the conflict was over quickly. He clicked on the light, then took the man's gun, checked it and set it aside on the table. Once again he leaned out of the door and jerked his head for Sherlock to come.

"Mycroft again?" Sherlock asked as he approached. "No," he answered himself, apparently noticing something. John supposed that his clothes or hair had been disarranged in the brief struggle. "Through the window?" John nodded. Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "Excellent. Now we're going to get some information." But again something about John stopped him, and he lifted an eyebrow. "Problem?"

"I, uh, I had to knock him out," John confessed.

Sherlock made a noncommittal humming sound. He swept past John and stood over the man lying on the floor, scanning him head to foot and then crouching down and pulling on gloves which he had evidently liberated from John's clinic. He grasped the man's jaw, tilting his head back and forth. He pulled the chin down and poked his fingers in the open mouth. He raked his gaze over his torso. He slipped a small object from the shirt pocket but he tucked it back before John could see what it was. He examined the hands, turning them over, pushed the sleeves up and then tugged them back into place. He slid his hands along the man's body, patting him down.

"Aha!" he murmured.

"What?"

"He's an amateur." Sherlock reached into the pocket of the man's jeans and pulled out a cell phone and a slip of paper. "Tie him up, like the others." He sat down at the desk, and his fingers began flying over the buttons. John took the handcuffs that were presumably intended for himself and fastened them on the man's wrists. "Look," Sherlock said in a tone of amusement. He held up the phone, which displayed a photo of John. "No mention of the fact that you're trained in combat and probably armed. He never stood a chance." John was pleased with the casual praise. "I don't think X's underworld contacts are of the finest." A few minutes later, Sherlock sent a text.

"Wait, what did you just do?"

"He was to bring you to a particular address. I said I had you and we were on our way. We will surprise X there and bring this little diversion to a happy conclusion."

"Do you know the place?"

"A warehouse in East London."

"An abandoned warehouse, eh? Typical."

"Quite."

"Who were the messages from? Is there a name for X?"

"Just a phone number."

"Can we not tell Lestrade? Get some back up?"

"Too risky," Sherlock declared. "He might alert my brother. No, we're now two steps ahead of X. We'll outflank him, and the game will be over."

John followed Sherlock through the same side door which he and Tom had entered but he stopped short as Sherlock reached for the handle of the door to a glossy blue late model Jaguar.

"Sherlock! Where did you get this car?"

"Oh, do you like it?" Sherlock said with a cheeky grin. "I valet parked it at the Landmark."

"You _valet parked_?" John repeated in disbelief. "Tell me you did not steal a car."

"I did not steal a car," Sherlock agreed. "I just didn't take it directly to the garage. I wager we can have it back before they miss it, and I'll even top off the petrol." He smiled at John's shock. "They were clearly going to spend at least two solid days in bed."

John burst out laughing. "You're amazing."

"I must say, he was rather a stingy tipper," Sherlock remarked, as he put the car in gear. He smirked. "Sadly _not_ a very good sign for her."

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Jaguar probably wasn't safe parked on the streets of Bethnal Green, John thought as they began walking the few blocks to the address in order to check it out in a stealthy manner. But as they drew near, it was clear that they had a bigger problem. The warehouse was no longer abandoned. It was surrounded by the light, noise and motion of emergency vehicles and security personnel.

"What the hell—" was all John managed before a uniformed officer stepped forward to intercept them at the police tape.

"Back, please. No members of the public," he said in a peremptory tone.

"Not the public. Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock corrected him. John wondered whether it was advisable to claim the identity of a man who had died in disgrace nearly a year earlier, but the officer merely seemed thoughtful.

"Holmes? Any relation to Michael Holmes?"

"Michael?"

"No, that wasn't it. Some odd name."

"Yes. Let us through to your commander."

The officer retreated a few paces and began speaking into his radio while keeping them in view. Suddenly the door to the large police trailer at the center of the activity slammed shut so loudly that everyone in the vicinity quieted down. Sherlock and John turned to see a man standing frozen next to the vehicle. His mouth was hanging open. Clearly, Detective Inspector Lestrade was completely gobsmacked. Not waiting for permission, Sherlock ducked under the tape and strode over, John at his heels. "What are you doing here?" Sherlock called out.

Lestrade reeled back as if struck.

"Bloody hell! What are _you_ doing here?" he said, his voice rising to an angry shout.

"Greg, it's OK. Calm down," John said, moving closer with his hands up in a placatory gesture.

Lestrade turned and locked eyes with him. "John!" John nodded in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "He's… not dead?"

"As you see," Sherlock said impatiently.

"Shut it, you," Lestrade snapped, not looking away from John.

"He's still with us," John confirmed.

"Christ! How long have you known about this?"

"Uh, what time is it?"

Lestrade didn't reply, apparently satisfied that John's answer was to be measured in hours.

"What is going on here?" Sherlock insisted.

Lestrade took a deep breath and finally turned toward him. "Your brother is being held hostage. Come on in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose a Jaguar for Sherlock to borrow because Benedict Cumberbatch narrates their ads. Check YouTube if you want to swoon over his voice making remarks such as "the monocoque chassis is strong and rigid."


	13. Chapter 13

The interior of the trailer was fitted out as an office or command center. John looked around, ignoring the men in suits working at computer stations or speaking on the phone. His gaze stopped on Anthea, who came forward to greet them. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," she said.

"Why is Lestrade here?" Sherlock asked. Pleased as he was to see their friend and colleague, John had the same question. He had assumed that MI5 or some agency he didn't even know about would handle a situation like this involving Mycroft.

"Mr. Holmes's standing orders," Anthea explained. "If there were an incident in the greater London area, D.I. Lestrade was to lead the operation."

Sherlock's eyebrows arched up but he made no comment, turning aside to pace in a tight circle, muttering to himself.

"I tried to contact you," Lestrade told John.

"Mycroft swapped out my phone," John explained.

"You saw him? When? You need to bring me up to date." John glanced at Sherlock, but as he didn't seem inclined to participate in the conversation, John tried to relay the facts as efficiently as he could.

"All makes sense now," Lestrade said at the end of John's tale. "Mycroft has some kind of panic button his captor didn't know about. He sent out a distress signal about an hour ago. Of course, we have them surrounded. We sent in a phone, told him there was no way out. We're offering ransom, safe passage, the usual, but he refused to negotiate. Said the plan was to die along with Mycroft. But in that case, why spin it out? Why take him anywhere? Why not just kill him on the spot? Now I get it. He was waiting for his man to bring you along. Wanted to finish you and Mycroft together, I suppose. Maybe taunt you about Sherlock a bit first."

The mention of his name seemed to pull Sherlock back to them. "I should have realised," he said in frustration. "Moriarty wanted to thwart Mycroft nearly as much as he did me, and he was fixated on John. He wanted all three of us, and X does too. X thought he got me this morning and he sent that tosser after John. It was obvious that Mycroft would be a target!"

"Don't be too hard on yourself." John tried to soothe him. "We're all still alive."

"It was not a bad plan," Sherlock allowed. "If his man in the park had been successful, Mycroft would be next. Presumably he was waiting for confirmation. But then you turned up with the note and he decided to move sooner rather than later." He turned to Anthea. "What was Mycroft doing before this?"

"He was going to question a witness, someone who saw you at the train station. We assume they were overpowered."

"Who was with him?"

"Alex Gustafsson. Analyst in the Northern European section. Speaks Norwegian."

"It's him," Sherlock declared. "He's the one."

"Who?"

"They weren't overpowered," he said impatiently. "Gustafsson is the captor. He must have concocted a report of a Norwegian witness so that Mycroft would take him."

"Her," Anthea said. Her eyes swept the three of them, confirming that she had their attention. " _Alexandra_ Gustafsson." She pulled out an iPad and began tapping the screen.

Sherlock immediately glared at John. "No remarks!" John adopted an expression of complete innocence. "She has an X in her name; I was right about that." John snorted.

"She's been using a voice changer," Lestrade said. "Sounded like a bloke. But now we know exactly who we're up against."

"Here, have the file," Anthea said, holding the tablet out to Sherlock. "Of course, any of it could be fabricated," she reminded him, even as he began flicking through the document.

"John, look." He flipped the device around, showing John a photo of an attractive young woman with long blonde hair, brown eyes and a strong jaw. Their eyes met in a moment of wordless communication: _Molly_. Sherlock's instincts had been ahead of the data, ahead of the logic. It made sense, a horrible kind of sense, to John. Gustafsson had fancied Moriarty, admired him, hero-worshipped him, and now was trying to eliminate those he had wanted to eliminate.

"All right," said Lestrade. "We know who we're dealing with and that's a huge plus, but this is a very volatile situation. She's prepared to die as soon as she gets John."

"We'll deliver him," Sherlock said at once. "She doesn't know the man she sent for him. I'll take him in."

"No!" Lestrade's horrorstruck reaction was immediate.

"Why not?"

"Sherlock! Be reasonable. She may not know the bloke she sent, but she knows you."

"His hair's different and he can walk different, seem like a different person," John suggested.

"But according to you, she wants to kill three people, and we're going to give her the two that she's missing! What kind of strategy is that?"

"So John and my brother should face an adversary with one of _your_ lot to protect them? I'm not going to let that happen!"

"Do I get a say?" John inquired mildly.

"Oh, we all know what you're going to choose," Lestrade snapped, rubbing his hand over his face. "We don't have a lot of time here. Mycroft is totally at her mercy. She could kill him at any moment. And if John and his escort don't turn up soon she may become suspicious."

"My plan, then?" Sherlock pressed him.

"God help us," Lestrade moaned in surrender.


	14. Chapter 14

Lestrade was overseeing the negotiations with Gustafsson. Sherlock had sent another text from the hired gun's phone asking for instructions in light of the police presence at the building. She had ordered Lestrade to permit him through with John. Lestrade, of course, was pretending to resist. He began by demanding proof that Mycroft was still alive and uninjured. Mycroft was allowed to speak his name into the phone, which left everyone giddy with relief, although Sherlock attempted to feign indifference. They had progressed to debating what sort of photographic or video evidence might demonstrate Mycroft's health status.

John was familiarizing himself with the gun he had been issued, after Lestrade had suggested, with elaborate casualness, that he should be armed and that Anthea could hold onto anything John might have on his person that he didn't need at the moment. John had rolled his eyes at the charade, but he appreciated the necessity of it. If he had the chance to shoot, and he bloody well hoped he would, it would be infinitely easier for everyone if the bullets came from a weapon he was authorized to carry.

Even as he went through the steps of his customary routine, John's mind was racing. Usually they had been caught by surprise or simply plunged in to danger with no time for anything but the chase and the fight. This time they were gearing up for it. He had a chance to say something, just in case. There were things he thought he had lost the chance to say. Now that what he thought was impossible had proved to be only improbable, should he pass up the chance again? But what? Anything heartfelt just seemed wrong, out of place somehow. They were British! He had an urge to tell Sherlock that if it came down to it, he considered Mycroft much more valuable than himself. But that was horribly presumptuous, and anyway, Sherlock would follow his own wishes no matter what John said.

He glanced at Sherlock, who was calmly reviewing the floor plans of the warehouse. Was he simply that confident or did he not have any final words? _If you were dying, if you were being murdered, in your last few seconds what would you say?_ No, John would never forget how Sherlock had ultimately answered his own question: _Goodbye, John_. Even though Sherlock had expected to live through that morning, he hadn't known how long the road ahead would be and whether he'd make it all the way back. John didn't need or want to hear it again, ever.

Lestrade was beckoning. It was showtime. Sherlock's gaze swept over John, and he nodded when their eyes met, evidently satisfied with what he saw. John smiled at him. There was no need to speak. Against all expectation, they were a team again and ready for anything. Sherlock reached out a hand and pressed on John's shoulder to signal him to turn around. "Do you have any instructions? Anything I should know?" John asked as Sherlock fastened a pair of handcuffs on him loosely enough that he could squeeze his hands through.

"We're going to play it by ear, mate," Sherlock said. John turned his head sharply to stare at the sound of the slang and an Australian accent. Sherlock grinned at him.

"How?"

"The dental work. Confirmed by the contacts on his phone." Sherlock beamed at John's obvious admiration.

"Well, I'm glad you unleashed that on me before we got in there." John reminded himself not to betray any astonishment. _You're terrified of this man_ , he thought, trying to get into character by calling on his unfortunately all too numerous memories of being threatened. He felt Sherlock press the barrel of the gun into his back.

"Move," he ordered, and John hung his head and obeyed.

They entered the building and went to the wide-open third floor. He saw Mycroft restrained in a chair, blindfolded and gagged but not visibly injured. Gustafsson stood behind him, gun in her hand.

"Mycroft! Are you OK?" he blurted, and Mycroft nodded yes. _Thank God_.

"Quiet!" Gustafsson barked. "Good work, Nick," she addressed Sherlock. "Lock him over there." She covered John with her weapon while Sherlock pushed him in place, opened one cuff, threaded it through the rungs of the metal chair facing Mycroft's and clicked it shut again, keeping the ratchet slack. Knowing that she couldn't see behind his back, John tested the hold and felt that he could pull his hand through. Having completed his task, Sherlock moved away.

Gustafsson stared at John for a moment, and he stared back. She was quite pretty and even in these surroundings looked benign. She looked like she should be picking up a child from kindergarten or meeting her girlfriends for drinks. How did Moriarty twist and ruin people so thoroughly? Did he find susceptible individuals or had they gravitated towards him?

"Where's my money?" Sherlock demanded. John's gaze leapt to Mycroft. He hadn't moved a muscle in response to the voice, the accent or the attitude. Pretty impressive, but then again, lizards probably took lessons from Mycroft on how to be cold-blooded.

"You'll get your £5,000," she said.

"We agreed on £10,000!"

"Well, I have £5,000 for you."

"Fuck you! Toby said you were good for the money."

"Toby?" Gustafsson looked confused. John was riveted by the rapid exchange. Sherlock's vocal mannerisms, his short ginger hair and his loose-limbed posture were working. Gustafsson had accepted that he was the man she had expected to see, and he just had to hope that Sherlock had gathered enough data to avoid being caught out.

"Toby Adams? Barman at the Scorpion and Frog? That's where you got my name, isn't it?"

"Oh, Adams, yes, he told me all about you. For one thing, he said you've been out of work."

"A lot of the dockers are idle, not just me," Sherlock said defensively.

"And he said you live—"

"With my mum, yeah, because she's infirm, not because I can't afford my own digs."

"£5,000, take it or leave it."

"I'm going to have a word with Toby. Just give me the cash and let me get out of here." John tensed up. This was his opportunity. While they conducted the transaction, he could slip his cuff and shoot. If he didn't have a clear shot, then at least Sherlock would be dismissed, and he would be in a position to surprise her.

"No," she declared. "First you're going to kill these two for me."

"What the hell?"

"You heard me." She trained her weapon on Sherlock. John tried to think through the situation. Was there a way out of this?

"I'm not a killer. You paid me to bring this bloke, that's all. And then you cheated me!"

"Need a little motivation?" She radiated hostile determination as she dropped her arm to target his left leg.

"OK, you crazy bitch," he said. "I'll do it."

"Lovely. Now, as you know, the Met and God knows who else are here, and they are predictable, but they may have some trick up their sleeve. So we are going to get on with it, but I am going to make sure we all understand how things stand." She whipped off Mycroft's blindfold and pulled the gag down so that it hung around his neck. Mycroft blinked and focused on John. "It's taken longer than I thought, but I am finishing what Jim started." Just from the way she pronounced his name, John could tell that their theory was right: she idolized the psychopath. "Your brother didn't make it home, did he? Did he?" She prodded Mycroft with her gun.

"No," Mycroft said.

"Jim beat him in the end," she sneered. "He sent Sherlock Holmes, the so-called Reichenbach hero, running away, hiding like a rat. After today, no more Sherlock Holmes, no more of his clever clogs brother and no more of his pathetic little pet. I could never believe the attention that man got, when Jim was the true genius. Sherlock Holmes was never half as brilliant as he thought he was, and he is nothing now. If anyone remembers him, they think he's a fraud. Jim is gone, but I've made sure he didn't lose."

"Are you sure about this?" Sherlock broke in. He tilted his head towards John. "Can't imagine he's worth anything, but you could get a fortune for this Pommy bastard."

"No deals. Who do you want to start with? Your choice," she ordered.

"I'll go first," said Mycroft. "My mistakes are what brought John and myself here."

"No, me!" John cried. "I'm nobody, just as you said."

"Very touching," Gustafsson said dryly. She was still aiming squarely at Sherlock. "Make a move, Nick."

"Fine, this one." He nodded at Mycroft. Without glancing at John, he moved away from him, raised his weapon and took aim. John understood. Gustafsson's attention was diverted to ensure that Sherlock went through with it. He had to intervene before she forced Sherlock to shoot or killed one of the brothers herself. "Any last words?" Sherlock said to Mycroft.

Mycroft and John answered at the same time.

"No," said Mycroft.

"Yes," said John, as he yanked his hand through the cuff, drew his gun and pulled the trigger. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

Gustafsson had turned towards him when he spoke. She fired, but his bullet had already pierced her chest, too high for the heart, but enough to send her staggering back and cause her shot to go wide. John hit her again as she twisted away. This bullet slammed through her liver, and she collapsed to the floor. She tried to raise her weapon, but Sherlock darted forward, damn him, and John couldn't risk another shot. But Sherlock stomped on her forearm, reached down to twist the gun from her hand and sent it skittering away across the floor. He backed off to keep her in his sights. John quickly worked his other hand free and went to stand next to Sherlock, looking down at Gustafsson. He hated the sight of someone bleeding in front of him, but he knew it was too dangerous to approach her.

"Well done," Mycroft said quietly.

Sherlock ignored his brother. "Call Lestrade," he told John. John looked around stupidly. "In my pocket," Sherlock clarified, tipping his head minutely to indicate which side. John hesitated for a split second. Did he have to do this in front of Mycroft? But he stepped around Sherlock and extracted the phone from the pocket of his trousers. The emergency response team had heard the three closely-spaced shots, and even John could tell that Lestrade's nonchalance at the news that only Gustafsson had been injured was poorly acted. He went to unlock Mycroft's cuffs using the key he'd had just in case his own restraints were too tight to slip. Suddenly the scene was flooded with people, and Lestrade was there, taking charge of their weapons and leading the three of them away.


	15. Chapter 15

"I take it the note you showed me was a ruse." Lestrade had left them in the trailer and gone to ensure that the scene was processed properly. Mycroft's tone was matter-of-fact, but John felt the accusation.

"I'm sorry. Sherlock worked out that Moriarty's last follower worked for you, and..." he trailed off. He didn't need to explain matters to Mycroft, and the two brothers were now engaged in one of their bouts of tense, silent communication.

"Of course I didn't want anything to happen to you," Sherlock finally burst out. "Nothing fatal, anyway."

"All's well that ends well," Mycroft said. He spoke lightly, but John wondered what emotions might be smoldering under the smooth facade. Mycroft turned to gaze at John for a long moment.

"Excellent shooting," he commented. John thought that at such close range he should've been able to kill, and Mycroft read his expression and clarified. "Under the circumstances. I appreciate it very much."

"Anytime," John said lamely.

Mycroft smiled thinly and then moved close to Sherlock, grasping his arm so that he could lean in and speak into his brother's ear. Sherlock scowled. "No," he said.

"Think it over," Mycroft counseled. "The offer stands. Now I must confer with my assistant so that we may begin setting things in order. This incident has revealed a very serious weak spot in our organization." He shook hands with John and departed.

"She didn't even rough him up," Sherlock said sadly. John sighed. There was no point in trying to force Sherlock to admit that he cared, even a little. Or in trying to discover what offer Mycroft had tried to tempt him with. If Sherlock wanted to share, he would, and if not, he would just become irritated or tell a lie or both. "Don't you want to know what he said?" Sherlock invited. John nodded for him to continue. "He wants to give you an OBE."

"And you turned it down for me? Thanks ever so." Sherlock scanned him, trying to determine whether he was serious. John took pity on him. "It's fine. I'm happy with the titles I already have. Doctor, Captain."

"Confirmed bachelor?"

"OK, that one I might be willing to let go of. Someday."

"In the meantime—" Sherlock sounded hesitant, and again John leapt to give him the answer he was looking for before he had to ask.

"You _are_ moving back in, aren't you?"

"Naturally."

"And you _are_ going to tell me how you knew what to say in there?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "You didn't notice his calluses?"

"What about them?"

"He didn't have any!"

John laughed. Sherlock's eyes were already unfocussed, and John knew he was visualizing the unconscious body in the hotel room with every bright detail picked out as if by a spotlight. His words tumbled out in a rush. "He had a union tattoo on his forearm indicating that he is a laborer at the docks, but he had no fresh calluses. He's been out of work for at least four months. I already told you that his dental work was unmistakably Australian. In his pocket, a matchbook from the Scorpion and Frog. Toby Adams, the bartender at that pub, is a fixer. Moriarty used him from time to time when he needed some low-level punters to round out a crew. This is the connection between our man and X. The sum of money promised for abducting you was mentioned in the text messages they exchanged. Cat hair all over his clothing means he lives with a cat. But red eyes and the reddened scratch mark on the back of his hand means he's allergic. Perhaps he puts up with the animal for the sake of a girlfriend. He washed his hair with Seneca coconut lime shampoo, a brand available only from salons. Why would a dockworker use such a luxury product? His girlfriend was a hairdresser. But his hair was shaggy, hadn't been trimmed in over six weeks. They had broken up. Who does the cat belong to, then? He was carrying a prescription for Vicodin made out to Natalie Campbell. That's just pain medicine, you say. Could be for anything. But there was a note attached, asking him to fill the prescription on his way home. The handwriting is that of an older woman with arthritis. He lives with his disabled mother."

"That's fantastic."

"So I've been told." Sherlock was trying for an offhanded tone, but John saw a genuine smile.

Suddenly Lestrade was back. "Are you sure you're OK?" he asked John.

"Yes, fine."

"Paramedics don't think she's going to survive," he informed them. "Too much blood loss. But it'll come in as lawful. Can you come over to the Yard for official statements this afternoon?"

"Of course."

"Thanks." He turned to Sherlock. "Now, you."

"Can we not skip this?" he grumbled.

Lestrade glared at Sherlock's defiant expression. "If I thought that anything that came out of my mouth— lecturing, yelling, hell, even begging— if I thought it had the slightest chance of making an impression, I would do it. But I know it doesn't."

Sherlock's gaze dropped to his shoes. Apparently being informed that he was considered a lost cause, not worth the effort of trying to guide and reform, was worse than being scolded.

"You put John through hell."

"Greg," John protested.

Lestrade waved his hand to signal his disregard of John's attempt to intervene. "There is a cost to your behaviour, Sherlock, and it generally falls on other people. You may not have known, you may not care, but…" He slowed his speech to emphasize each word separately. "You _have been told_. That's all I have to say. I'm glad you're back. I have some files that might interest you when you two come by later."

A glance at his friend told John that Sherlock wasn't going to reply. "He'd love to." Lestrade heaved a sigh and left them alone again.

"I didn't want to do it," Sherlock said quietly, eyes still downcast.

"I know." Sherlock finally lifted his head to meet John's gaze, looking remarkably open and vulnerable, as he sometimes did. John searched for the words to reassure his friend. "Sometimes on the battlefield there are no good choices." Sherlock nodded, and John could see sadness, apology and gratitude in his eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, we won this round, didn't we? Shall we head back to Baker Street? You've barely slept in the past 24 hours."

"Let's get something to eat first," John suggested. "I'm starving."

"If you like."

"Are you sure? You've been away forever. You must be ready for the end of the road."

"I don't mind. I know a great place for breakfast on Mare Street."

"Two Boots? Sherlock, you have been gone for months. That place closed down right after New Year's." Sherlock seemed quite cross that his encyclopaediac knowledge of London had not automatically updated itself. "Don't worry. We can go to Railroad on Morning Lane. I've heard good things about their sausage sandwiches."

They walked out into the morning.

"Just tea for me."

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my friends and betas, ebhg and goddessofvolcanoes.


End file.
